Circling Silence
by OnceThereWasATime
Summary: John can't admit to himself everything thats happened and his mind is suffering because of it, will anyone be able to save him before the silence of 221B destroys him? Season two finale spoilers, hints of John/Sherlock. A continuation of Sherlock's Violin


When I wake up one morning to the smell of coffee my stomach leaps into my throat, he couldn't be . . . could he? Was it all a dream? I jump out of bed, tripping over the blankets that I had kicked onto the floor in my fitful hours of somewhat rest and though I realize I must look like a total mess at the moment, I really can't find it in myself to care. However when I only find Mrs. Hudson puttering about in the kitchen I can feel the wind go out of me, feeling the sudden urge to bash my head into a cupboard for letting my hopes rise so quickly. She pushes me into a seat, nattering on about what has been happening in her favorite shows as I sink back into the dark shadow that clings to the edges of my silent reality now.

"Now deary, you know I'm not your housekeeper but you were out so late last night, I thought I would pop up and make you some breakfast hmm, just this once?"

She finally catches my attention and her tone is cheery but it's underlayed with worry, her eyes watching me with something so close to pity that I can't handle it so I close my eyes. Allowing her words throw me back to the first time I was at Baker Street, back to Sherlocks hopeful smile when he showed me the flat and his slight blush after my comment on how messy it was. It takes nearly all my energy to shove the memories away instead of sinking into them as I'm tempted to do, and I attempt a smile for Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up coming in... I-I was just taking a bit of a walk"

She tutts but continues bustling around the kitchen, thankfully not asking any more questions. I let my head slump into my arms, not feeling like trying to make conversation today. I was so tired, I hadn't gotten back from my walk until nearly four, and it must have been only half past seven now.

I found myself leaving 221B during the evenings rather frequently now a days, mostly because I can't sit in a dark flat all night anymore when sleep isn't going to come until the wee hours of morning anyway. If I stayed here in the dark I would become enveloped in memories, I would drown in them and eventually I wouldn't have the strength to return to Mrs. Hudson or reality. It was too hard, especially when it was so quiet. When not even the sounds of the telly could fix the silence that has descended. I tried for awhile, tried to pull myself out of this so I could finally move on. I even bought a CD of violin music hoping it would calm me, and let me sleep peacefully for once.

Unfortunately when I woke up in the middle of the night and heard the music that was very much like Sherlocks and yet so different from the warm, familiar tones he played, I destroyed it in a fit of rage and hadn't bought another. In the end the walks helped in keeping me sane for a while more, but they served to depress me more when I my feet took to all the places I had visited with him.

I wandered the train yards and river sides of old crimes, a part of me wondering if perhaps Sherlock wasn't at those places. Maybe just waiting for me to come find him so we could dart off to a new crime scene. He was never there though, just like the logical side of my brain expected, but when ever I didn't find him I still felt disappointed.

It was after those irrational moments of sadness that my feet would guide me to the spot I had last seen him, so pale and calm even in the chaos that had descended on the world. The little patch of sidewalk that looked just like any other piece of pavement, so deceptive in its innocence that I would begin to feel angry at it for not having some sort of mark that would remind people that a horrible part of history had happened there.

"John!"

Reality flooded back suddenly and I jumped as the hand that had been laying on my shoulder shook me once more before letting go "I kept calling your name and shaking you, but you weren't answering!" Mrs. Hudson said, and she wrung her hands together looking so utterly worried yet relieved that I had to wonder how long I had been unresponsive for. I felt guilty suddenly, and heard the silky voice, that haunted my both my bad and good dreams, mutter in the back of my mind, 'Shame on you John, for making Mrs. Hudson worry.'

I made excuses to her, trying to sooth her worries but it was obvious she didn't believe me. For good reason as well, I was a rubbish liar when tired and even I didn't believe what I said. For the last two weeks it seemed that time had been slipping away from me, large chunks of time seemed to disappear from my memory. One minute it may be early morning and yet in what seemed like just the next moment to me was suddenly late in the evening.

"Just eat please John, you're too skinny, he wouldn't like seeing you like this."

The words stung as she said them, because I knew she was right. Sherlock would think I was an idiot for acting like I had been the last two months, and would certainly be worried about my health. I just couldn't seem to stop myself from the self destructive behavior. Nonetheless Mrs. Hudson was worried and Sherlock's voice nagged in my head to appease her.

So I tolerated as she sat and watched me eat, making sure I wouldn't throw away the food. Which to be fair, I would have if she had left me alone to eat breakfast. I just didn't have any appetite for anything, not even Mrs. Hudson's food which was quite the treat before. . . Well, just before. I forced it down now, and even managed to make a few attempts at small talk, feeble though they were. Eventually she left, and when I leaned against the door after closing it I could hear a choked back sob from the woman who had been so kind to me since I had first moved in.

I wanted to scream at Sherlock, scream at his voice that seemed to have taken the place of my conscious. I wanted to tell him that he was the one upsetting Mrs. Hudson not me, explain that it was his disappearance making her cry. Yet even as I thought it I knew it wasn't true, she wasn't crying over Sherlock, she was crying for the man Sherlock had broken when he . . . left. She was crying over me, and even though I knew it was all my fault, I couldn't find enough strength to open the door and apologize. I couldn't even stay strong enough to stand anymore, and my legs collapsed underneath me.

I slid down to sit on the floor, bracing myself against the wall and staring blankly at my hands, I wondered rather absurdly if the sound of Mrs. Hudson crying was actually the sound of my universe, and my mind breaking apart. Sherlocks dark chuckle circled me at the thought and I curled in on myself whimpering, why did everything have to happen the way it did?


End file.
